From the Ground Up
by WildArm
Summary: Taking place before and eventually running parallel with the events of Destiny 2. Alexander, who is known to have a strong distaste for Guardians, is a capable human civilian sniper stationed on The Farm. He will have to overcome both his prejudices and other trials and tribulations of living outside The Last City as he ironically becomes the one thing he hates the most. Please R&R
1. Selector of the Light

**Prologue** **:** Selector of the Light

I remember feeling _cold_.

How long had it been since I took a moment to sit down to rest? How long had it been since I told Kyla, Ben, and Jordin-9 to continue on in the Super Carrier without me to finish off Thumos, the Unbroken for good?

The small Fireteam I was a part of was assembled by Hawthorne to take out the Cabal—one of Ghaul's "Chosen" generals—after his countless attacks and invasions in small settlements nestled on the outskirts of The Farm, the social hub Hawthorne founded where we non-City residents gathered to set up missions. We set up scavenging and assault teams and provided provisions to the other human settlements in need if supplies ran low.

Things were good; we fought for survival against all factions of the galaxy that would see the human race eradicated. We won some battles. We lost even more of them. But even though things seemed bleak and we were oftentimes unsure about our own future, our _present_ made sense. Strangely, it all fit into our bizarre puzzle of life, and for the first time, I finally felt a part of something good, something decent, something _noble_.

That all changed once The City fell.

Once the Red Legion invaded The City, abducted The Speaker of The Traveler, and forced the surviving Guardians to flee, that's when my sensible puzzle fell into utter chaos and disarray. That's when the Guardians came to _us_ for help because they were no longer protected by their precious Light.

I _hated_ Guardians. Sure, they stood for the Light and the preservation of the human race, qualities we "lesser beings" should be _thankful_ for, but at what cost? Our freedom? Our civil liberties? We were forced for many years to take shelter in The Last City, the so-called "final bastion of the human race". It might as well have been a prison for those of us who wanted to experience the outside world like our ancestors did. If you weren't a Guardian or if you had no business or affiliations within the scope of the Vanguard, you were unable to come and go from The City as you pleased.

Which is why, as soon as I saw Hawthorne take the lead years ago and leave, I up and left with her to _enjoy_ and _experience_ and _respect_ and _fear_ what the world had to offer outside the confines of The City instead of living life like a canary trapped in a cage.

But this is how we ended up here, isn't it? This is how it all lead to this moment.

My eyes betrayed me, took away my sight.

My ears betrayed me, took away my sound.

My nose betrayed me, took away my smell.

My mouth betrayed me, took away my taste.

My hands betrayed me, took away my touch.

All five of my senses had betrayed me at that moment, and I was still unclear as to how and why I was alone in an open field of darkness completely devoid of any and all light. I felt trapped within my own thoughts, my mind acting as my would-be captor that made sure it kept me rooted to the spot. But where exactly was the "spot"?

And then… _warmth_. Seemingly out of nowhere, a pinhole of light burst through the darkness, filling my vision with nothing but pure light. It pulsated through my body; first in my mind, then into my arms and finally into my legs, allowing me to wiggle my toes and move both legs slowly.

 _What is this?_ I thought, my head shifting aimlessly left and right. _What is this light?_

And then…oxygen. _Air_. I opened my eyes and gasped for breath in what seemed like the first time in eternity. An irregularly shaped figure—no bigger than my fist—floated above me, scanning me with a blue reticle, blinking every so often as it finished scanning a particular portion of my body that would later allow me to freely move it.

More than not, it was focusing on the large hole in the side of my torso where no doubt my intestines had spilled to the floor after my hands could no longer hold them in. That's the last thing I remember before blacking out. I pleaded with the others to leave me behind and focus on the mission at hand so they can end this senseless Cabal threat once and for all.

 _That's right_ , I thought. _It's all coming back to me now._

It had been a Psion's fusion rifle that caused all this damage to me; of that, it can be no doubt. It was down a long stretch of hallway that ran parallel with the area Hawthorne had told us to infiltrate to bypass the Carrier's security systems. Once we reached the hallway, I quickly aimed down my sight and took out a Psion with a clean headshot, watching the satisfying mist of oxygen fill the air as it clawed helplessly at its throat before crumpling to the ground. At this, I collected myself and kept pushing with the rest of my Fireteam, hell bent on doing the same to the others.

That's what separated the "lesser beings" from the Guardians. We knew there would no coming back for us if we died right there in that hallway, but there we were—myself, Ben, and Kyla—ready and willing to take the fight to the Cabal, to show them that it's _men_ who are indeed brave, _not_ the Guardians who know the Light will revive them.

And because of that pride, because of that mentality, because of that _stubbornness_ , I made an oversight that cost me dearly. I noticed a Psion with a charge ready to fire. My mind didn't take into account that it was aiming for Jordin-9, the Titan Guardian assigned to our small Fireteam as additional support courtesy of the ever-virtuous and can't-take-him-in-large-doses Commander Zavala and the Vanguard. Jordin-9 was also one of the few fortunate Guardians to have the Light restored to him after The City fell, causing other Guardians and non-Guardians alike to revere them as the _true_ saviors of mankind who would eradicate the threat of the Red Legion and liberate The City from their tyranny.

Once the Psion released its charge, I instinctively shoved Jordin-9 to the side out of the trajectory of the beam and moved too slowly; I thought I had more time to dodge the beam myself. Instead, I felt a great sensation of heat penetrate the left side of my body, like a knife easily gliding itself into a soft piece of meat. Crimson colors filled my vision and my drive sent me tumbling to the ground in front of my Fireteam, who continued to press on despite my injury, to kill the remaining Psions and clear the hallway.

At that moment, pure adrenaline filled my body, and I still had the strength and will to prop myself against the cold metal grating of the hallway as I made a quick assessment of my wounds. The fusion beam had eroded a complete section of my left hip and belly. I tried with all might to apply as much pressure to the wound to no avail; blood was seeping through the laces in my fingers as quickly as air was surely leaving my body.

I was going into shock; I knew it then, I know it now. It was just a matter of time before I lost consciousness due to the blood loss.

Ben was the Fireteam medic, Kyla the Fireteam Leader. They were both on me in an instant after the firefight had concluded to assess the wound themselves. Ben had quickly taken a "Salve"—a liquid solution that filled open wounds and hardened them long enough to get a patient into surgery—to my side and bandages in an attempt to close the wound to no avail. After all, how can you close a hole in a body that was nearly the size of a softball?

"Go on without me!" I gasped, "Thumos needs to be taken down! He knows we're coming! Finish the mission!"

Jordin-9 needed to be told once before he grabbed my rifle and slung it over his back, assuring the others I would no longer be needing it in my current state. He did, however, leave me with his hand cannon, which he blessed with the name "Bad News".

"If you see any Cabal, give them some," he said in his autonomous voice. Jordin-9 was an Exo with lavender "skin" that complimented the white iris' his creator chose for him. Since he was an Exo, Jordin-9 lacked much of what made humans compassionate, sacrificing sympathy and empathy for precision and calculation on the battlefield, which made me wonder how he came to be a Guardian in the first place.

Ben and Kyla, however, did not leave as quickly. "I told you we were all going to see this through together," Kyla said, grabbing my hand. "You tryin' to make me look like a liar?"

I shook my head and fastened the fakest grin I could muster at that moment to provide a false sense of security to a leader who would no doubt abort the mission in favor of her team.

"It's my job to make you look bad," I wheezed, laughing slightly. Unlike the grin, the laugh was real. Kyla, Ben, and I have been a consistent Fireteam throughout the years and have proven time and again to overcome the odds in favor of success. To Kyla, every mission was a failure if someone in her Fireteam was injured or killed despite the completed objective. After the mission was complete and we were safely returned to The Farm or another settlement, she would mercilessly beat herself up about her tactical decisions and leadership qualities until either Ben or I would reassure her otherwise.

"I'll be fine," I lied. "Not going anywhere. Just don't forget to pick my big ass up once you're finished with Thumos, you hear? I don't want to spend my whole Saturday in this ship; I got a game of soccer waiting for me at The Farm with five hundred Glimmer on the line."

"Want to make it a thousand?" Ben grinned. "I like my chances at winning now."

"Fine," I agreed. "One thousand. And another thousand if you give me Thumos' left middle finger. Not the right, not the ring, not the index. And don't you dare think about giving me a thumb!"

Ben smiled weakly; he knew this would be the last time we would be speaking to one another. He pressed his forehead to mine and reloaded his scout rifle before helping Kyla—who was still holding my hand—to her feet and followed in line behind Jordin-9.

The last sound I remember was the echo of their footsteps running down the hallway.

"Sinara?" I called out, lifting a hand that felt it was attached to the body of a drop ship. "Sinara? Is that you? Where's Jordin-9? The others?"

The small Ghost finished its assessment of me, the blue filter surrounding the room vanishing into the central core of the machine's reticle. It looked at me as a puppy looks at its master at the mention of food and shot into the air two meters out of shock.

"Alexander!" it shrieked, beeping twice. "I'm so glad I got to you in time! We need to get out of here; Cabal forces are closing in on our position!"

"The others?" I asked, noticing Sinara was alone. "Sinara, where's Kyla and Ben?" The Ghost floated in front of me, its blue reticle looking in all directions before I firmly grabbed it with my left hand. "Answer me, Sinara! Where's my Fireteam!?"

Sinara beeped softly in my hand before her blue reticle dimmed. "Dead," she said simply. "Jordin, too; I couldn't bring him back this time. Thumos was just too much for them to take, especially with his Blood Guard defending him. The fight was over in less than a minute." She beeped softly again before turning its gaze directly at me. "It was more than they expected, which is why we need to leave while we still have the chance."

The realization of losing both Ben and Kyla hit me with the intensity of a hurricane. _Dead_ , I thought. _That can't be; they always come back. Always._

"We need to get out of here," Sinara repeated. "We don't have much time before the Cabal arrive!"

As soon as Sinara finished her sentence, a small troop of Cabal entered the hallway, coming through the open access panel my Fireteam bypassed in order to navigate through the ventilation system of the Carrier. There were two Psions on the left and right of one of Thumos' Blood Guard, a Legionnaire that boasted yellow and red plate armor with the Red Legion symbol embossed on its pauldron. In his hands was a Scorch Cannon, ready and willing to be used to eradicate any more of the fools who thought to attempt to assassinate his general.

"We're too late!" was the last thing I heard Sinara shriek before I fell into a trance. An unknown power surged through my fingertips and illuminated the hand cannon, Bad News, with a heat and golden hue that reminded me of the solar waves of the sun.

I heard a voice speak. It said, _"Arise, Guardian, and take up your charge, for this is the will of The Traveler,"_ before fading out entirely.

What followed next all happened too quickly for even me to process. Thumos' Blood Guard, mouth open in shock, evaporated in a brilliant flash of orange and yellow, the two Psions on opposite sides of him meeting the same fate mere milliseconds later. In an instant, all three of my aggressors were gone, and the only presence within the hallway was once again Sinara and I.

"What the hell was that?" I asked in shock, Bad News dimming back to its original shade of matte black and glossy silver. "Sinara, what's happening?"

"No time to explain!" she retorted. "You can't do much in your current state; we need to get back to The Farm and report back to Hawthorne!"

Kyla and Ben reentered my mind then. Even Jordin-9. I couldn't leave their corpses in there for the Cabal to do what they wished with them. The thoughts of seeing my friends strung up or displayed as trophies caused my stomach to turn in knots. "I can't just leave them in there, Sinara! They're my friends! If the shoe was on the other foot they wouldn't leave me behind!"

"Yes, they would, and yes they have!" the Ghost shouted back. "Look at you, Alexander! Look _inside_! Don't you remember what happened after they left? Don't you remember what happened before I found you?"

I thought long and hard about those few moments I had as the sounds of their footsteps dissipated. I felt the cool grating on my back, felt the warmth of the blood once again pooling out of my side, and the strong taste of iron on my tongue that took away my speech before my vision faded and my senses failed me.

 _I died, didn't I?_

{break}

 **Author's Note** **:** I have been hankering to write a Destiny story for quite some time now since there are currently no novels I can sink my teeth into. Since the story and lore is mostly shadowed and dense as of now, I can only go by the limited information available to me and hope I can do this story justice once it continues.

If you like the story and would like for it to continue, please don't forget to review so I know if people have taken an interest in it. It really means a lot to me as a writer to know people are reading and actually enjoying what I'm writing.

If there is anything wrong with the canon as far as you can tell, I would appreciate you telling me, as there may be some oversights here and there because of the limited information on the plot, etc.

Thank you so much for taking the time to read this. Looking forward to giving you some more to read soon. God Bless.

Wild


	2. Betraying of the Light

**Chapter 1 : **Betraying of the Light

When my father died, I inherited our family's most precious possession whilst digging through the rubble that had once been my home. It was a revolver from the 1800s I was told, complete with the one bullet my father kept in the chamber.

"In case of emergencies," he had said when I asked.

From what I knew, it was not a functional revolver, but I nonetheless cleaned and maintained it as my father taught me: remove the bullet from the chamber, oil and polish the cylinder, handle, etc. It was very tedious and menial work, but was something that kept my mind off issues of hunger, depression, and otherwise.

And it was the only thing I had left of my father—of my family, in general. No matter where I happen to be or what I happen to be doing, it is always on my person. The only way it wouldn't be is for someone to loot it off my corpse.

The memory of losing my father repeats itself during strange times and for strange reasons, but the pain hurts as it always does: sharp and deep.

 _{break}_

I felt the intense heat of the explosion close to my face, so close it seemed my skin was being sliced off by a potato peeler. I watched from atop a flipped dumpster to the place I once called my home—now in ruins—as a slew of Fallen worked their way through the town, slaughtering any who stood in their way. Man or woman or child made no difference to them; we were simply a disease that needed to be cleansed no matter the cost.

When all seemed lost, when all seemed to be put to rest, was when the Guardians showed up. From the sky, like a great beam of light in a brilliant blue flash, a giant among men crashed through the ranks of Fallen who had gathered outside the village, body parts and gore flying in all directions.

Once the smoke and dirt and grime cleared, a Titan stood at the center of the crater, cradling a shotgun over her shoulder as she stepped across the bodies of her adversaries. One Fallen—a Dreg—attempted to crawl away from the crash zone, only to be greeted with a shotgun blast to the chest, effectively ending its advancement as the Titan casually continued to walk as if unaffected by the carnage that lay in her wake.

From the Titan's left, a Vandal with a pulse rifle aimed down its sight was ready to fire when a burst of blue fluid—its blood—expelled from a deep wound in its neck. When the Vandal crumpled to the ground, a Hunter stood over its corpse and wiped the knife with the Vandal's blood on the corpse of his victim. Afterwards, he took the sniper rifle attached to his back and perched himself in the Vandal's position, surveying his kill zone ahead.

A crowd consisting of Captains, Vandals, and Dregs began to move in formation and fired upon the incoming Titan, who pressed her shoulder against the corner of the building before her, carefully calculating the number of Fallen. She stepped out of position once, fired her shotgun, and advanced upon the group.

What seemed like a suicide charge was anything but as a large purple orb descended upon the group of Fallen and melted their bodies. Floating from atop the building the Titan was covering behind, a Warlock made contact with the ground, relinquishing her hand cannon before looking at the Titan and nodding.

A Captain in the distance roared, urging its clan mates to fight the incoming enemy. Its cheers were quickly silenced from the boom of a sniper rifle, the Captain's head imploding on, nothing left save the searing hunk of space its head once was. From the distance, the Hunter pressed two fingers to his forehead and waved to his Fireteam.

Though many Fallen lay dead at their feet, their enemy would not relent. Waves of them came from all directions, Dregs climbing down the sides of building as spiders. Vandals perched on rooftops all warmed up their fusion rifles and fired below, perfectly aware they held the high ground against the enemy.

I stood in awe at the Guardians before me: they represented what these foes should fear about the human race. We were not some disease to be cleansed from the universe; we were the cure to the illness factions like the Fallen represented in the universe. We fight to show how tenacious and determined humankind can be when we are pressed against a wall.

That was what I thought then, I think.

And as of that time, the Guardians still did not notice me. Even though I wanted to continue watching their onslaught—to watch those Fallen suffer for all the needless death and bloodshed they wrought—I had to find my father, who was lost in this sea of destruction and decay.

I had to make sure he was safe; he was all I had left.

My father had sent me out on an errand an hour before the conflict arrived at our door. I was to deliver a fragment of glimmer to the baker in exchange for two loaves of bread and something sweet for my troubles. Most people knew one another in my town, so the baker would give me a sweet regardless of the amount of glimmer I came in with.

That same baker now had a hole in his chest the size of a human fist because of a Vandal's pulse rifle, whose eyes will forever be staring into nothing, whose face was contorted in shock, as if to ask, "Why me? Why this town? What have we done to deserve this?"

As I turned a corner, the sound of gunfire began to dissipate; no doubt, the Fallen were now converging on the Guardians' position now that the civilian element was destroyed. I stepped over countless bodies of people I had loved, who I've known as long as I've been born.

I began to walk—cautiously—down a narrow alleyway, scanning my surroundings to look for an exit should there be need of one. Unfortunately, the alleyway was blocked on both sides with nothing but solid concrete, which meant there were only two possible routes I could take: to and from where I currently was.

The sound of rustling perked my ears and I shot to the ground, crumpling into what could be the best fake corpse I could muster.

What rounded the corner was the man I sought—my father—who had two children, three young adults, and an elderly woman in tow. In his arms, he held a child who was bleeding profusely from a wound on his side. If the child did not get a medevac soon, he would surely die.

My father looked down at the ground and froze as he saw me lying prostrate on the ground.

"Alexander?" he called out weakly. "Son? Can you hear me?"

I stirred, knowing I was now safe; my father would protect me. He looked to the sky above and smiled, but I could see the glass forming behind his eyes, relieved to see his son safe in this sea of carnage.

The people in my father's company looked broken, both in body and in spirit. The children were dirty and their faces were marked with what could be dried tears and the elderly woman had a sling over her arm and limped as she walked.

I recognized the three youngsters as Kyla, Ben, and Alyssa, kids I grew up with but who ran with a different group of friends. We never really fought, but never really got along that well, either.

Nevertheless, I was glad to see them safe.

"Here, take the boy," my father said, the injured boy groaning as he was handed over. He felt warm in my hands, which was a good sign: that meant he still had life in him.

"I can fight," I argued, the boy groaning once again. "Give me a rifle, sidearm…anything! Give me a chance, Dad."

My father shook his head. "If things go south, I need you to get these people out of here. You know the quickest routes around and out of town. We need to make it to The City. Have the Guardians arrived?"

I nodded.

"Good, that'll make this easier, then."

My father slung the scout rifle that was over his back into his hands then and, without skipping a beat, aimed down his sight in the direction I had just come. He was always a man of action, a man who hunted for our food in the wild and who helped those who couldn't by giving what little he could and more. Oftentimes, _we_ went without food ourselves because my father gave our rations to families who had small children or who were too old and feeble to help themselves.

"Out here, we need to look after one another," he would say when I would complain about the lack of food. "A lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. To be alone is to be just that. You will do well to remember that the next time you decide to complain about helping others."

That was the type of man my father was: a champion, who selflessly put others before himself—even before his own son.

That was the type of man the Guardians killed that day.

Through countless one-on-ten skirmishes, my father would order his small troop to keep heads down, stay out of sight, and took down his adversaries with nary a mark inflicted upon him. Before he left the confines of The City, my father was a scout for the Vanguard, who personally worked with Guardians on countless occasions as their Fireteam sniper.

The Guardians knew—and _asked_ —for my father by name as missions were doled out.

He would tell me stories about his missions with the Guardians, the calculation, the precision on the battlefield. He told me stories of how they could drink near anyone under the table. He told me stories of who had secret families of their own and of those who felt both blessed and cursed to be a Guardian.

Anyone who was "selected" would always say the same thing upon reflection: "Why me? What have I done to deserve it?" But being chosen was never a choice: it happened, or it didn't.

There was no rhyme or reason as to why.

Within the hour, the boy in my arms had died; the pain and blood loss was too much for the poor kid to bear. Unfortunately, we had to leave his body behind, as it was illogical to carry around unnecessary excess weight, which made me sick to my stomach.

The boy was barely out of infancy, barely made a mark upon this world and never will after today.

 _They'll pay_ , I thought, gritting my teeth. _These Fallen bastards will pay for what they've done to us._

The Guardian Fireteam was making short work of all Fallen in their path, but the amount of Fallen that kept piling in would soon become a problem. Aside from the fact that the Guardians were heavily outnumbered, the new subject of discussion would be whether they were overwhelmed or ran out of ammunition first.

My father saw the transport carrier before everyone else did. He signaled to the Guardians and to the other survivors to make ground toward just outside the town entrance, which was ironically the safest LZ because of the amount of Fallen in town.

The Guardians—joined by my father—continued to pace backwards toward the town entrance whilst the rest of us ran as far and as fast as our legs would carry us. I watched one Dreg come at my father with its dagger only for my father to duck, lift the Dreg over his shoulder and onto the ground. What came next was a massive Titan boot that obliterated the Dreg's face.

The Titan Guardian and my father fought side-by-side as if they fought together for years. I wondered: was she one of the Guardians my father spoke of in his stories?

As the transport carrier touched down, Fallen were coming from all directions. The number the Guardians had already put down were nowhere near the number that was converging on all sides. Each Captain and Lieutenant chanted war cries to bolster their morale, to show that Guardians are not to be feared, that if they can bleed, they can be killed. And if they can be killed, then there is no greater honor than to be known and feared as a Fallen who had taken one of their ranks.

That was when a Dreg's shock pistol found both my father's left knee and upper-right torso, who fell to one knee.

The Hunter and Warlock had already reached the carrier by the time I jumped out and was laying down cover fire for the Titan and my father. The _ping_ of the Hunter's sniper rifle rang in my ears, deafening me.

All time froze at that instant. I saw survivors climbing into the carrier away from the carnage while I ran toward it. The Titan Guardian next to my father ceased her onslaught and glanced at him, who, with an open hand, began to shout.

The Titan then turned and ran in my direction, leaving my father behind.

My father shot one, twice, three times with his rifle and then struggled to get to his feet, leaving a trail of blood with each labored step he took, the Fallen nearly upon him.

He fell to his knees once again after only a few steps. He was breathing heavily, his eyes agape in shock and pain. He pressed down with the butt of his scout rifle and inched his way up, only for the rifle to give way underneath, causing him to crash down into the ground.

In one fluid motion, the Titan slung her shotgun behind her back, ducked, and threw me over her shoulders without breaking her stride, my father becoming a tiny speck in a field of dots the further away we got.

"Father!" I screamed, kicking at the Titan who had thrown me over her shoulders. "That's Marcus Wyldarm! He was part of the Vanguard! He needs help! Please! _Please_! I have no one left! He's all I have! We can't leave him behind!"

No matter the plea, she would not listen. The Titan threw me inside the transport carrier and it elevated whilst making a hard turn in the direction of The City. I could only watch—helplessly—as the two small bursts of light that came from the muzzle of my father's scout rifle were stymied by the endless stream of Fallen that converged upon his position.

 _{break}_

That was ten years ago. The memory still haunts me. My father was right there, using all his strength in his body to crawl to the transport carrier, who saved countless lives—most of which still live in The City today—left to be torn apart by the flood of Fallen while those cowardly Guardians ran with tails firmly sealed between legs.

I hated them and all they stood for. There was a time I revered them, wanted to be just like them if I was fortunate enough to be "selected", but that day destroyed what pristine image my childish mind conjured about those armored cowards.

"Hey, are you all right?" Kyla asked, placing a delicate hand on my shoulder. "You've been polishing that cylinder for almost twenty minutes; I'm pretty sure it's done."

I snapped back to reality. "Huh?" I said, shaking my head. "Yeah, sorry, must have dazed out. Is the mission a "go" yet?"

Kyla shook her head in turn. "Almost. Hawthorne is putting the finishing touches. Supposedly, there might be an old bunker around here that could have caches of weapons or food."

"Let's pray it's the latter," Ben said, walking into my tent and plopping himself on my cot. "Feel like I haven't eaten in days; my stomach's dissolving."

"Well, we won't know anything until the morning," Kyla said, tussling Ben's hair. "Get some rest until then, kiddo."

"Kiddo? Can you believe her, Alexander? I'm the oldest one here."

"She's right, kiddo. Baby needs a wittle shut-eye," I said, pursing my bottom lip.

Ben shook his head. "Whatever, man. This little baby is going to bed, then."

Ben winked at me and left the tent, while Kyla sternly put one finger up, ordering me to do the same. I smiled my best cheese grin and slowly assembled the revolver once again. As it lay in its holster, just under my pillow, my mind began to race as I drifted to sleep.

I dream the same dream every so often. I'm twenty again, and I watch as my hometown is slowly eradicated. My father is on the ground, _pleading_ , asking me for help. His hand is stretched out, waiting for me to take it. I watch as he gets further and further away from me until he grabs his head, screams, and disappears.

Every time I watch…

…and yet, every time, I do _nothing_.


End file.
